


Salut d’Amour

by umbrllaacademy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, angels don’t dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrllaacademy/pseuds/umbrllaacademy
Summary: It’s a rainy day in London, so Crowley does what any lovesick demon would do: drink and dance.





	Salut d’Amour

This had been the worst torrential downpour in London since Armageddon hadn’t happened. Aziraphale and Crowley had spent the entire day cooped up in the bookshop, surrounded by flickering candles with Aziraphale sorting through his collection and Crowley lounging on a loveseat in the back room. It was quite a nice loveseat, Crowley had noticed as he’d draped himself over it. It had white tufted leather that was so spotless that it appeared as though it had never been touched. It must have been rather expensive, and Aziraphale probably went all the way to Germany to get it. Crowley had spent an abhorrent amount of time thinking about the logistics of transporting a loveseat from Germany to London. For the past few minutes, however, he had been staring at the ceiling and considering his next hairstyle; he was tired of this one, and he felt that since so much had changed in his life, his hair should change too. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale crouched in the corner by the gramophone, leafing through some first editions of Oscar Wilde. He would occasionally mumble words of appreciation to himself like “Oh, I forgot I had this one!” and “How lovely this book is,” and “I adored this one when it first came out!” Crowley shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the angel. He watched as his eyes tracked the worn, browning pages with such fervent devotion, almost as if he might discorporate if he didn’t ingest and memorize every word. Crowley’s features softened for a moment so brief, it would be imperceptible to any human onlooker. If you looked really closely (which no one had, since they were the only two people there), you would have seen that the corners of his mouth had flicked up ever so slightly and his vertical pupils expanded underneath his glasses. That angel did love his books, and that demon did love his angel. 

“Oi,” called out Crowley in an attempt to attract Aziraphale’s attention. “How d’you suppose I’d look with a pompadour?”  
“A what?” Aziraphale tilted his head in genuine interest.  
“A pompadour. You know, the one that’s really short on the sides and tall on top?” Crowley gestured around his head, giving the general shape of the haircut.  
“I think you’d look lovely with any haircut, dear.” Aziraphale smiled, and the whole room quite literally lit up. Crowley hissed quietly and covered his eyes with his forearm. Once the brightness had dissipated, he bit his right thumbnail, which he had just painted black, pensively. He wouldn’t let himself smile at that compliment, he swore. 

He slid off the loveseat with the grace of someone who had been sliding off of couches for years. Of course, he _had_ been sliding off of couches for years— over six thousand, to be exact. He slunk across the room to stand in front of Aziraphale, who was presently flipping through a copy of _The Decay of Lying_. 

“Would you mind taking your nose out of that book and going to get us something to drink?”  
An irritated pout flashed over Aziraphale’s previously tranquil face.  
“Y’know what?” Crowley backpedalled, “Forget I said anything. I’ll just go get it.” 

A few minutes later, Crowley emerged from the cellar holding two bottles of wine. He placed them on the table next to the gramophone and grabbed two crystal glasses from a nearby shelf. He filled the glasses to the brim— a practice which frustrated Aziraphale, but which he personally was a huge fan of— and held one out towards the angel. Aziraphale took it wordlessly, had a sip, and placed it back on the table. Crowley rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t he get his attention for more than two seconds? He glanced over at the gramophone. He’d only ever seen Aziraphale use it a handful of times over the years. He wasn’t even sure it still worked. Still though, there were a number of records beneath the table. He bent down to examine them. 

It looked like someone had tried to organize the records and then given up halfway through. Some records sat in their cases, while others went naked and laid on the floor. Crowley flipped through them: Dvorak’s _New World Symphony_ , Handel’s _Water Music_ , Borodin’s _String Quartet No. 2 in D Major_. He had never even heard of half the composers that Aziraphale had, and he fancied himself an admirer of classical music. Finally, he stumbled across one he did know: Elgar’s _Salut d’Amour_. He and Aziraphale had actually run into each other at the Crystal Palace in 1889 the night that Elgar had debuted this song. They had listened to it side by side that night, and ever since, Crowley had the image of Aziraphale watching and listening intently, smiling like the sun, etched into his memory. 

He uncovered the record, placing it delicately on the table of the gramophone. He turned it on and put the needle down, but no sound came out. Another look at the needle showed that it was bent beyond repair. Crowley sighed.  
“Nothing can ever be simple,” he muttered. Then he snapped, and the needle was in perfect shape. The song began to play, cheery and rich and full of love. Crowley walked back over to Aziraphale and held out his hand lazily.

“Dance with me, angel.”  
This certainly made Aziraphale pay attention. Everyone knew that angels inherently did not, could not dance. Sure, he used to enjoy the gavotte, but that was a long time ago.  
“I... I can’t,” he responded, his face reddening.  
“Come on,” Crowley groaned. “I’ve got the one angel in the universe who actually dances and he won’t dance?”  
“I don’t know how,” Aziraphale insisted.  
“Then I’ll teach you.”  
Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that logic. He took the demon’s hand and rose to his feet. Crowley wrapped his left arm around Aziraphale’s back, then took his left hand and placed it on his own shoulder. At this, the angel winced and blushed feverishly; Crowley never let anyone touch him. This was one of a handful of times that Aziraphale had ever made contact with him for more than a few seconds. 

“Like this,” Crowley said uncharacteristically gently, showing his partner the correct way to move his feet. Slowly but surely, they fell into the rhythm of the music. 

“See, you’re catching on quick.” Crowley said after a while.  
“Well, you did pick a good song to dance to,” said Aziraphale knowingly.  
Now it was Crowley’s turn to blush. He looked down at their feet, moving in perfect synchronicity. 

Crowley’s brain, or whatever it was that he had in his head, switched to autopilot. He was lost in his own thoughts about what he had and what he wanted, what he’d wanted for six thousand years. He stared at the angel’s face, which was grinning childishly. He kept seeing flashes of his face from that night in 1889, with that same childish grin and those sparkling eyes. He If he wasn’t going to do it now, when would he? And with all the courage that he could muster, he leaned in and planted a kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. The angel’s eyes widened and he let out a small squeak of alarm. The song had ended now, and the only sound in the room was the whisper of the rain outside. 

“Oh Hell, I’m sorry,” said Crowley hastily. “I just... I thought—“  
“Do it again,” said Aziraphale.  
“Huh?”  
“Kiss me again.”  
Crowley let his mouth curl into a smile this time, and without wasting a second, he obliged.


End file.
